Of scarfs and apologies
by immature-girl
Summary: It's Sherlock and John's first Christmas as a couple, and despite of Sherlock's dislike for the holiday, John hopes they'll have a perfect Christmas together. Only everything goes to hell when Sherlock returns home high. Merry Christmas, indeed. Tw: drug use. ATTENTION: Chapter 1 has been slightly edited. Feel free to let me know if there's been some improvement x
1. Of scarfs and mistakes

With Christmas fast approaching, John was starting to get slightly desperate. This was the first Christmas he and Sherlock would spend together as a couple, so he wanted everything to be perfect.

Or as close to perfect as it could get, considering his partner wasn't particularly interested about the holiday.

Still, that didn't mean they couldn't have a good time. John was positive that if he took care of the decorations, the food and everything else without getting in Sherlock's way, he wouldn't complain too much. Besides, what bothered Sherlock the most were the guests and having to talk to people. John had no intention on inviting anyone over this year, so that was one less thing to worry about.

The only problem John had left was finding the perfect gift. What could you possibly give to someone like Sherlock?

The idea came to him exactly one week before Christmas, after he and Sherlock were returning to Baker Street, having solved their latest case. Sherlock was complaining about having to buy a new scarf, since his had gotten lost in the Thames after he had jumped in after their suspect. He was a bit irritable since he would have to wait until the festivities were over, because shops were overflowing with people on this time of the year.

So, John sensed his opportunity and decided to give Sherlock a scarf. Not any scarf, though, he figured it would be better to knit one himself. He wasn't very good at it, but with the help of Mrs. Hudson he was sure he would have it ready on time.

* * *

"What happened to you?"

"What?"

"Your fingers," explained Sherlock. "They're bandaged. What happened?"

"Oh. Don't worry, it's nothing." John, upon realizing Sherlock wouldn't just let it go, continued. "I just got a bit burned. I was cooking with Mrs. Hudson the other day, and got distracted. It's fine."

Sherlock looked at him a few more seconds, before returning his attention to his experiment.

_Crisis averted._

* * *

Finally, Christmas arrived. Since Sherlock was out for the day, John took the opportunity to decorate the flat and put up the tree (because, according to his partner, if the tree stayed in their living room for longer than necessary, he would set it on fire. John knew him well enough to know he wasn't kidding). After he was done, he went downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's, who gave him a plate of homemade cookies, and retrieved the scarf.  
The living room looked festive enough, the food was in the oven, and the scarf was placed under the tree. John paced the living room, suddenly nervous. He hoped the detective wouldn't be too difficult today. He had been in a foul mood the whole week, and loosing his scarf hadn't helped _at all_. John had made sure to keep the decorations at a minimum, and he even stopped himself from putting some Christmas music in the background.

Ten minutes later, he heard the door.

The detective entered the flat, a thunderous expression on his face. He stopped dead on his tracks when he saw the state of the flat.

"What the hell is all this?"

"Did you and Mycroft have another fight?" John sighed, making a mental note to kill Mycroft the next time he saw him. Did he have to put Sherlock in this state _today_ of all days? Not that Sherlock wasn't partially guilty; he was usually overly sensitive when it came to Mycroft, but the elder Holmes should know by now which buttons should not be pressed.

"Irrelevant. What is all this? I told you I didn't want all these... _things_ in my flat."

"Actually, you said it was fine; you just didn't want them for too long." John knew it would be worst to face Sherlock when he was like this, be the words had escaped his mouth before he could stop himself.

John repressed a sigh and walked up to him, willing to apologize just for the sake of having a quiet evening, but stopped dead on his tracks.

"You're high." John simply stared at him; at Sherlock's dilated pupils, at the slight shaking of his hands. And the more he looked, the more he noticed. Sherlock's breathing was harsh, and his skin was even paler than usual.

John clenched his fists, drawing out a long breath. How bad had the fight with Mycroft been to make Sherlock seek the drugs again?

Sherlock's face shifted. A second ago he looked furious, ready to lash out at the smallest thing. Now, he simply looked detached, wearing his usual cold, distant expression that he seemed to reserve for when he was feeling particularly cruel.

This was past the '_bit not good'_ territory, it seemed.

"I don't have time for your dull holiday, John," he said, changing the subject. "I have no interest to participate in it, and I want all of these out. _Now_."

Sherlock went towards the tree, and John was about to stop him, afraid that the detective might just threw it on the floor in a fit of anger. Instead, Sherlock stood in front of it, his head cocked to the side, before kneeling and grabbing the small package under it.

"Oh, and what is this? You got me a gift. How considerate of you." He was now facing John, opening his gift with feign enthusiasm. He held the scarf on his hands and laughed. He made eye contact with John, the disgust evident on his features.

"This? _This_ is your gift? If you were planning to give me a rag for Christmas, you could have at least made me a decent one."

"Sherlock, please."

"I have no use for your so called '_gift_'." He threw the scarf at John's feet and sat on the sofa. "So take this and the rest of the stuff out of the flat."

John simply looked at him, resisting the urge to simply punch his partner in the face, and making sure to keep any traces of hurt off his face. He didn't want to give Sherlock another reason to mock him right now.

After all, even if he was hurt by Sherlock's words, he knew it was mostly the drugs doing the talking.

_Mostly._

"You know what, do as you wish. I'm going out." John tried to keep his voice as firm as possible, though he didn't think he had actually succeeded, if the derisive scoff from Sherlock was anything to go by.

He left without his coat, and he didn't even spare Sherlock another glance.

He drew out his phone from the pocket of his jeans, and with a heavy sigh, dialed Mycroft's number.

* * *

Author's notes:

This was supposed to be a fluffy christmas fic

WHERE DID ALL THIS ANGST CAME FROM /sigh

I'll upload next chapter (the last one, I think), as soon as I can :)

Merry Christmas, everyone Xx


	2. Of mistakes and regrets

Sherlock opened his eyes, but instantly closed them again. His head was pounding and the bright, white lights above him made it worst. He slowly opened his eyes again, carefully this time, and looked around him, trying to remember what had happened last night, and why he was currently in a hospital. God, he hated hospitals. It must had been pretty bad if John-

_John._

Something had happened, but he couldn't remember what. It was something to do with John. Was he alright? What-?

"You're finally awake."

Sherlock abruptly lost his train of thought and saw Mycroft standing at the door, his face a mixture of concern and disappointment.

"What happened?"

"Not really surprising that you don't remember. Cocaine tends to do that to you."

_"Oh, and what is this? You got me a gift. How considerate of you." _

_"This? This is your gift? If you were planning to give me a rag for Christmas, you could have at least made me a decent one."_

_"Sherlock, please."_

_"I have no use for your so called 'gift'. So take this and the rest of the stuff out of the flat."_

"Oh."

He was an idiot. A complete and utter moron. John. He had to get to John; he had to explain him, made him understand-

"Oh? You return home high, lash out on your partner, and the only thing you have to say is 'Oh'?"

"I didn't- I wasn't thinking."

"Obviously not, my dear brother." Mycroft entered the room, closing the door behind him, and sat on the chair next to Sherlock's bed. "John called me after your row. I went to the flat and found you passed out on the couch."

"And John? Where is John?"

Mycroft hesitated. "He's at his sister's. I talked to him, and we agreed that you should start rehabilitation again."

"What? That's ridiculous. It was just one time, Mycroft. Call John, I need to-"

"He doesn't want to talk to you."

Sherlock looked at him, almost crestfallen. "Mycroft, please."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock hanged his head, his eyes closed, and he was surprised when he felt his eyes water up.

"How long?"

"Nothing too drastic. I could make some arrangements so you will only have to stay six months, approximately."

"Fine." He drew out a breath, collapsing against the pillows. "Will he... will he still be there when I get out?"

"So you're going?" Sherlock's throat tightened. He looked at John, who had quietly opened the door and was now entering the room, looking tired and haggard.

"Yes."

"I'll leave you two alone." Mycroft left the room, after a final glance to Sherlock, and closed the door behind him.

"John, I'm so sorry."

"I know." John gave him a small smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I didn't mean what I said. I know Christmas was important to you; I didn't mean to ruin it."

"I know, Sherlock. It's fine. Just focus on getting better now, all right? I know going to rehab may seem unnecessary now, but you'll start craving the drugs again in a few days if we don't act on it now."

"Will you wait? I mean, will you-"

"Yes."

Sherlock instantly relaxed, and tentatively hold out his hand to John, who after a small moment of hesitation took it in his own.

"I'll make it up to you when I get out. I promise."

"Thank you."

* * *

"Ready to leave, dear brother?"

Sherlock merely hummed. He opened the door to Mycroft's car, but was stopped by a hand on his elbow.

"What, Mycroft'"

"I think you will want to take this with you." He drew out a blue, knitted scarf from his pocket._ John's scarf_.

"How did you get this?"

"I convinced John to let me give it to you. He was a bit... uncertain, that his gift would be welcomed."

"Well, tell him..." Sherlock held the scarf in his hands, feeling the soft fabric brushing his fingers, and he felt a pang of guilt. Now that he was sober, he wanted to kick himself from what he had done. John's scarf was truly beautiful, and knowing that he had actually knitted it himself made Sherlock's insides tingle. "Tell him thank you. It's a lovely gift."

"It is, indeed." Mycroft squeezed his elbow and let go. "Farewell, Sherlock."

* * *

**Author's notes:**

Sorry for the delay, lovelies.

Also, I have edited the first chapter a bit, because writing while being sick? Terrible idea. So take a look, if you'd like. Don't worry, storyline's the same x

Happy New Year's everyone :)


	3. Of regrets and apologies

Since Sherlock's return to Baker Street, things had been... tense.

On the surface, things appeared to be just as always. John made tea, fussed about his experiments, accompanied him on cases. But he didn't touch him anymore. Not deliberately, at least. Their kisses were strictly chaste and only initiated by Sherlock. They went to bed together, but John was already gone when the detective woke up.

It was driving him mad, even if he knew he only got himself to blame.

He had promised John he would make it up to him, but every time he tried to touch the subject John gave him the cold shoulder.

_Time for another tactic, then._

* * *

"Oh. You're... wearing it." John pointed at the scarf wrapped around Sherlock's neck.

"Of course. You made it for me."

"But," John furrowed his brows, "you've been back for almost two months. This is the first time I see you wearing it."

Even if he was trying to hide it, Sherlock could see John was slightly ashamed. Not surprising, considering John thought he found the scarf hideous.

"I dislike wearing it in public." Sherlock could see John's shoulders slump, so he instantly added, "It helped me. When I was in rehab. Having something from you, I mean." His eyes found John's and he could see his face softening, though he still seemed confused. "I don't like wearing it in public, because I consider it something... private. Intimate."

"Then why-"

"You're upset. With me. And you won't let me apologise, so I wanted you to _see_. That this means something to me. That I care. And that I'm truly sorry, John."

John drew out a sigh, his eyes roaming over Sherlock as if looking for something. Then, slowly, he approached him, until he stood right in front of him.

"I missed you," he whispered.

Sherlock cupped his cheek, leaning forward and kissing the corner of his mouth.

"And I, you."

* * *

The next few months were peaceful. Better. But things were still different.

It took Mrs. Hudson to make him realize why.

"Well, dear, it's almost Christmas. He still has those bad memories from last year."

"But he's been like this for weeks."

"Of course he has. Being so close to Christmas makes him more anxious, but that doesn't mean it's not a recurrent thought."

"But I apologised," Sherlock pouted. "I thought that would be enough."

"He has accepted your apology, dear, but he's still hurt. Maybe he's worried something will go wrong again, or that you won't be interested in celebrating this year. After all, it had taken him a long time to convince you of it last time."

"Oh." He stayed silent, deep in though for a few seconds, until he felt a hand on top of his.

"Don't over think it. I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up to him."

_Oh. Of course._

* * *

Sherlock wanted to surprise John this year, since he had ruined his surprise the past Christmas.

So he convinced John to go pay a visit to his sister on the 24th, telling him not to come back until evening, saying they could go out for dinner to celebrate.

John, as expected, looked slightly disappointed; but he didn't complain.

_Time to work, then._

* * *

"Sherlock... What are you doing?"

Sherlock turned to look at John. "You're early." He squirmed and turned back to the oven. "The gingerbread cookies are not ready yet."

"The- You're baking?"

"Obviously." He walked towards John, a guilty expression on his face. "I am aware that you've been... anxious lately. Because of what happened last year. So I thought I could make it up to you."

"You've decorated the flat while I was gone. You've put up a tree, and you're baking." He looked confused for a moment, before smiling tentatively at him. "Is this why you made me go to Harry's? So you could surprise me?"

"Yes." He got closer to John, brushing his knuckles against his, carefully. "Is that alright?"

John's shoulders slumped with relief. He smiled and caught Sherlock's hand, giving it a light squeeze. "Of course. It's lovely."

"I'm glad." His expression turned guilty again. "John, I really am sorry-"

"Stop. You don't have to keep apologising," he sighed. "I know I keep moping around about what happened, and yes, maybe it was justified; but you apologised. Plenty. I'm the one who couldn't let it go." He gave Sherlock a chaste kiss, brushing his thumb across his cheekbone. "Thank you for doing this," he whispered against his lips.

Sherlock curled and arm around John's waist, pulling him closer, and dropped his head on John's shoulder.

"Oh," Sherlock cut off the embrace, smiling down at him, "I made you a scarf."

"You... knitted me a scarf?"

"Yes. Well, sort of. Mrs. Hudson helped me." John stared at him in disbelief. "Fine. I helped her. But it was my idea," he pouted.

"You nutter. You didn't have to."

"I know."

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"Merry Christmas, John."

* * *

**Author's notes:**

I'm really sorry about the wait. But here you go, the last chapter, with enough fluff to make it up for it

I'm not entirely happy about how this fic turned out, but I honestly don't care. I like it. Even if it's disgustingly Ooc at times *sigh*

Hope you liked it.

Lots of love x


End file.
